


The welfare of the people (shall be the supreme law)

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: Disaster Management has always been their forte [13]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Caretaking, Corruption, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jakes Never Leaves AU, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Police Grandfather Bright, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Space Heaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: Morse loved Oxford like musicians loved their instruments. And Jakes was not going to take that away from him.He’d stay in Oxford for a while.Besides If left alone, Morse would start writing erotic fiction under a different name as another source of income, or something.A sequel to "Grabbing What Happiness You Can"





	1. Chapter 1

Waking Morse by opening the window to let in the air and the sound of birds going crazy was the best way to ensure a good day at work. Fiddling with the radio to find the station that played classic music helped too, but Jakes preferred being able to sing along to current songs while doing his hair.

Morse’s bedsit was dingier than his own, but it was closer to the station. Staying over had the added benefit of being able to sleep for ten minutes more and still have time to dress properly and have breakfast. Morse would get out of bed when the kettle boiled, his hair ruffled and an imprint on his cheek from the pillow. He’d nod at the radio instead of Jakes, but glare at it if it was playing the Beatles.

Then he’d drink his scalding hot tea, only eating a bite or two of the toast or fruit Jakes would push towards him before they headed out the door. At least he appreciated the shirts and socks that had mysteriously appeared in his closet after Jakes had started staying over regularly. At least Morse brushed his hair and made a decent effort to wash his face these days. In the beginning, when he’d been deeper in the bottle, he’d often be too hungover to do anything than gulp down some tea while getting dressed.

It had been a good morning, filled with the promise of talking to Trewlove about classic detective novels over lunch and dumping most of his paperwork on Morse right up to the moment when Jakes saw the look on Thursday’s face as Jakes took off his jacket at the station.

It was the face that said that the gruesome murder they were investigating had not been any closer to being solved.

“I think this might be a very long case,” Morse said, rubbing his hands together, still red from the cold. One day when Jakes had more money he would drag that man into Burridges, throw several pairs of trousers, socks and underwear into the cart and then add a jacket and a scarf for good measure. It was just a matter of time until he’d pass his Inspector’s exam. And then he wouldn’t have to watch Morse wring his hands and wear shoes with holes in them. Jakes could tell that prolonged exposure to things like that was damaging his soul. Morse didn’t even notice much.

“Nah,” Jakes said. “Open and shut, this one. No need to get out more body bags right away.”

“I hope you’re right,” Morse said, still rubbing his hands together.

Three people had been killed before County had handed the case over.

And now there was another body.

At least this was a chance to see Morse’s brain at work, solving the sort of murders the Oxford elite cooked up all the time. Jakes would do most of the heavy lifting, making calls and interviewing leads and sorting through paperwork, as usual. And Morse would flip the evidence around in his brain and add it to whatever opera and literary knowledge was floating in there too and eventually find the murderer.

Morse was smiling and looking at the golden sunshine and the falling leaves outside the window. Better make sure that Morse would stay safe for the duration of this case. He had a horrible habit of getting shot, injured or jailed. Often a combination of all of those.

The least Jakes could do was to keep him from physical harm.

“Listen. If a tiger shows up because of this dead bloke in the river last week I’m ordering you to stay inside the station,” Jakes said. “Then I’m going to hand Mister Bright a good rifle.”

“I’m sure this one will be tiger-free,” Morse said.

“You never know,” Jakes said. “We’re never really free from those weird references those people in the collages keep making when we investigate them.”

“That’s what you have me for,” Morse said. “To decipher all those for you.”

“Nobody else can do it,” Jakes said. “One day, somebody will start using Morse code and we’ll solve the case by just calling for you.”

“Sounds like that would be a good day for us,” Morse said. “I hope I will be able to understand it in time before anyone gets hurt.”

“I’ve seen you try to talk in Morse code in your sleep,” Jakes muttered as Trewlove passed by with an armful of files.

Tapped Jakes’s shoulder for a good half-hour too.

At first it had been annoying, when Jakes had thought Morse was just poking him to get him to wake up, and then it became just plain weird. Just before Morse stopped Jakes had been absently wondering if he should learn basic Morse code, just to be able to figure out what the man was up to in his dreams.

“What?” Morse asked, his ears reddening. His eyes darted around the shared office space, his breathing just a smidge faster. It was unfair to do that at work. It wasn’t like Jakes could drag Morse into the nearest broom closet for a quick snog.

Morse’s face had become the same shade of red as the leaves on the trees outside.

No matter.

The officers around them would just assume it was because of the cold and a lack of a proper hat. Morse had once suggested that if it became any colder outside Jakes’s hairdo would freeze in place. That just sounded convenient to Jakes. He’d be the only stylish one around if that day ever came.

“You’d get that killer before he’d even thought of moving,” Jakes said, nodding at Morse and watching as he ducked his head, hiding the pleased look in his eyes.

They sat down at their desks. At least Bright would be happy to see them so early, if they played their cards right.

Jakes craned his neck, trying to hear the muffled argument going on in Bright’s office, but it seemed to be sort of fight where people said cutting things in a normal tone that only got higher when things had gone out of hand.

Well, it wasn’t his problem. At least not yet.

As soon as someone would shout, he’d walk over and drag Trewlove and Morse with him. But not until then. Jakes arranged a few files on his desk, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The minutes ticked by and the muscles in his shoulders gradually relaxed.

Things were just fine.

Besides, Bright could handle some bloke shouting at him. It wasn’t like anyone was going to do anything too unlawful while inside a police station. It was enough that he and Morse were in a relationship that could technically get them jailed.

Jakes tapped the table with his pen a couple of times, which caused Morse to stop listening to the argument and drag the typewriter closer to him.

There was work to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

Most of the day was spent hurrying around town, knocking on doors and making calls. It was only in the late afternoon that they got back to station for good. Throwing as many trained policemen at a case as you can afford, preferably the young ones who were eager to impress and wanted a promotion, that was a well-documented way of solving cases at Cowley Station. So, Morse and Jakes had tried their very best to gather clues, not having much success.

The victim had drowned, cold and alone. That was an unshakable fact. He’d been a music teacher, and his employer, a schoolmaster at a local secondary school had found the body on his early morning walk in a nearby park.

DeBryn hadn’t had much to say about his stomach contents, just that he’d eaten supper the night before, no drink or drugs in his system at all. There had been new bruises all over. The one that had killed him had continued beating him well after he’d died.

The other victims had originally been assumed to have died accidentally, but as the clues amassed and it had become increasingly obvious that they had in fact all been murdered County had essentially decided that they were out of their depth and handed the case over to them.

The suspects were annoyed that other policemen that the ones before were asking the same questions and many of them refused to speak to them at all.

Some did, though.

All the victims had either drowned quietly or put up on hell of a fight. There had been no in between. And they’d all been young.

Those that Country had investigated had already been buried.

Theirs was still being poked by Dr. DeBryn.

 

Golden and maroon leaves fluttered by the windows of Cowley station as Jakes headed to his desk with an armful of files and a cigarette between his lips. Jakes had returned early to the station and started sorting through the reports, trying to find a common factor in the witness statements. He dropped roughly two thirds of the files on Morse’s desk, which appeared to jolt Morse out of his daydreams.

But instead of dragging the top file towards him, Morse reached underneath his desk and put a small bag in front of his typewriter. Shiny blue pens and two black notebooks slid out of the bag, which was stuffed into one of the drawers. There was a red leaf stuck in Morse’s curls, and his cheeks were still scarlet from being outside.

One day, Jakes would find the old heater that has mysteriously gone missing from the office and bring it back. Or buy a reasonably priced one when he’d have enough spare cash. Then he would stop seeing Morse’s unhappy face when he was cold.

“I figured you’d need a new notepad since yours is almost full,” Morse said, tapping his finger on the smooth cover of one of the notebooks. “And besides, there was a sale.”

“Kids getting their school supplies, and all,” Jakes said, feeling the eyes of other officers in the room on his back. “Thanks.”

Morse inclined his head, handing over the notebook and a few pencils too. And a single blue crayon.

Because they are the police, perhaps.

Morse always had a second reason for everything, and usually his reasons were based in poetry or weird opera references. But sometimes they were very simple, just gestures of affection.

Perhaps this one was both simple and complex.

It’s not that Jakes wasn’t aware that the police was becoming more corrupt and violent. He’d always known that they were. There was no ignoring that after Blenheim Vale.

He spun one of the pencils around with his fingers and put away the rest.

Some reference to the idea that they were the boys in blue, even if their suits were black and grey. That this wasn’t just a job and they were only well-paid thugs. You had to believe that. You had to believe that a policeman was a servant of the law, first and foremost. And that there was justice in the world.

That you could make things right, or make some sort of change.

That was why he’d joined the force. And why Morse had joined, although he had never said so.

They’d locked enough murderers and thieves away to prove that they were making a difference.

After all, AC Deare was gone and he was never coming back.

Morse had looked at Jakes with nothing but acceptance in his eyes that night just before Morse had gone to Blenheim Vale. No pity. No fear and no disgust.

He had left Jakes to recover.

And then he’d gone to fight the monsters.

The cavalry had not come, so Morse had walked in anyway alongside the old man. It wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot. Not a gift like that.

It didn’t matter that Bright sealed the files away, only to be opened in fifty years. The case was closed, and they’d won even if the cost had been too high.

They’d won. That was what mattered.

Jakes began typing again, aware that Strange was stepping into the room and his eyes were lingering on them.

As long as Bright was the Chief Super, they were safe. And there were plenty of officers who wouldn’t hesitate to throw them under the bus so that they could get ahead themselves.

As long as Bright and Thursday stayed at the station, they had enough protection to continue this affair. They could not protect them forever, but they could give them enough time to build themselves a reputation so strong that no one could touch them.

As long as they were on the same team and working together, no one else would suspect anything. Most of their fellow officers just chalked everything up to Morse being an odd fish and Jakes being a good sport and a good Sergeant.

This was a fling, but it was a good fling.

Jakes didn’t expect this relationship to last forever, but it was nice nonetheless and he was going to do his best to make sure that it continued to be good for as long as it lasted. Perhaps they would have a few months, perhaps a couple of years.

Morse had managed to become a Sergeant, even after his exam had gone missing in highly suspicious circumstances. The fact that the only reason he had been promoted had been because it had been done by the Queen herself was rather funny in an odd sort of way. The nobs and higher ups couldn’t quietly arrange things so that something like that would be undone.

“Losing” Morse’s exam was one thing, but overruling their ruler was another.

And they were still there, at the station and still working for Thursday. And there was a case to be solved.

Everything else could wait.

 

Jakes looked up at the sound of someone lighting a match.

“We’ve just spoken to the victim’s wife,” Thursday announced, adjusting the pipe in his mouth. “Turns out that our victim warned the former schoolmaster that promoting Michael Ivers, the one who found him wasn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” Jakes asked, leaning back in his chair. “Too fond of whacking the kids with rulers or something?”

“Among other things,” Morse said, his voice the too neutral tone of those who were either trying not to cause harm or the one of those who had experienced trauma but considered that trauma a simple fact of their lives. “Intentionally humiliated them for getting things wrong too.”

Bloody hell.

“Not a good quality in a schoolmaster, then,” Jakes said, crushing the urge to raise his shoulders and ball his fists. This wasn’t the time for that. Later on, alone in his bedsit, he could allow himself such a display.

“Not someone I’d want teaching my kids,” Thursday said. “Ivers recently had a shouting match with another teacher who was also eligible for the schoolmaster position, so we’ll look into that too.

“Marie Davis, the history teacher,” Morse said. “Didn’t like the way he treated his staff and students.”

“What about his other relatives?” Jakes asked.

“No other relatives that we’ve been able to contact,” Thursday said, rummaging around in his pocket. He handed Jakes a folded document. “These are his old classmates and some of his students.”

Jakes unfolded the document, reading the neat little list of names. A few others were scribbled on the side in Morse’s neat handwriting, labelled as “friends of the victim.”

Henry hadn’t had a lot of friends.

“All the other victims are on this list,” Jakes said, staring at Morse.

“And others,” Thursday said. “We’ve sent officers to their addresses to talk to them and stay until tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.”

“The killer knew all the victims then,” Jakes said, circling the names on the list. “Same friend group and Oxford isn’t a large place.”

“Florist, journalist and a dressmaker,” Morse said. “And now a music teacher.”

“Similar ages, too,” Jakes said. “Not even thirty.”

“All studied at the same secondary school,” Morse said, watching Jakes carefully.

Oh.

Oh no.

Jakes took a steadying breath.

Thursday sighed and headed to his office, where he would stuff his pipe and look over documents. He left Morse and Jakes sitting there, pretending to stare into the distance while actually looking at each other.

“He caned kids, didn’t he, the vic’s old teacher?” Jakes asked, his voice low. The sight of those scars on the victim’s back had been enough to turn his stomach. He knew the shape of them well. He saw them on Morse’s back often enough. And he’d felt them on his own skin.

Morse nodded.

“Troublesome kids were sent to his class so they’d learn to behave, apparently,” Morse said, his tone wavering between disgust and horror. “The ones who were too poor or too loud or too shy and so on.”

“And he was their punishment,” Jakes said. “Bet that the kids who got beaten up on the playground and the weird ones were sent there too.”

Would Morse have stood a chance against that man, locked away in a classroom he couldn’t escape?

“He should have assisted them with their studies and helped them out,” Morse said, a grim look on his face. “What if Henry refused to send kids to his office to be punished?”

Jakes could imagine that fight, far away enough from prying ears and the school itself for Henry to feel safe to voice his opinions. And anything could happen in the dark, among the trees.

“He tried to protect his kids,” Jakes muttered. “Came back to teach at that school so they’d be safe. And that got him killed.”

“Maybe Ivers pushed him into the river after a fight, then run off and pretended to discover the body?” Morse said, running a hand through his hair.

“We’ll know after we’ve interviewed the other teachers,” Thursday said from the other end of the office, lighting his pipe. “Come on, then.”

They followed him.

Jakes ignored the low comment Strange made about them looking like ducklings after their mama. It was probably directed more at Morse than himself.

They stepped into the chilly autumn weather and Jakes allowed his thoughts to drift with the wind.

Morse and Thursday had gone back to the station to fetch him. Not only because the was the senior Sergeant and a vital part of the team, even though of course he was.

But because he was the damn expert, when it came to cases like this.

 

 

The teachers were scared shitless, almost flinching when Thursday opened the door to the staff room. Their eyes kept flickering toward the headmaster, whose face was a mask of stony grief and politeness.

In the end, after declining offers of tea and grammar lessons, they managed to get the history teacher to invite them into her empty classroom. Jakes half-expected Morse to start writing on the board and start lecturing him about allusion and rhythm in old poems.

Give that man a proper chalkboard and a box of chalk and he’d make his own clue-board. Maybe he’d pin crosswords to it, or notes alongside the photographs of victims. What an Inspector Morse would be one day, if things turned out right.

“Children shouldn’t be scared of their teachers,” Davis said, sitting down behind her desk. “And the teachers shouldn’t be scared of their schoolmaster.”

“Heard that he goes out of his way to frighten teachers all over Oxford,” Morse said. “And not just in the schools either. The victim’s wife is a violin teacher and he’s tried to boss her around.”

Jakes strode to the window, refusing to sit down by one of the neat little desks. He opened the window to get rid of the smell of sweat, old chewing gum and paper.

“Confuses fear with respect, does he?” Thursday asked. He looked around the classroom with the sort of familiarity that comes with having gone to countless parent-teacher meetings over the years.

“Just prefers fear, I suppose,” Davis said. “Thinks it’s more reliable to be hated than loved.”

Easier to frighten the kids into obeying him, using fear. Parents didn’t always believe their children when they told of how things were at school, and some children never said anything at all. But using fear as a tactic didn’t always work. There would always be someone who always got up again, or learned to hold tighter onto their friends, or learned to stand up to it. Even if it took years.

Jakes straightened his back and folded his hands behind his back, keeping his eyes on Miss Davis. Morse stood beside him, as still as a statue. As solid as one too.

A school, much like a police station, was its own little world.

How many teachers had quietly spoken to the school nurse about what was going on?

How many of them had dared to speak to the school board?

And how many of them had brushed this all aside, preferring to go on with their lives while turning a blind eye?

“Is that what killed Henry?” Morse asked. “His refusal to be afraid of his boss?”

“Or the fact that he didn’t stop being an odd fish after he graduated?” Jakes asked, looking at the neat rows of tables. “Encouraged the kiddies to focus on making music, right?”

“Didn’t think it was a worthwhile subject, I’m afraid,” Davis said. “How much security is it in pursuing the arts instead of something like carpentry?”

“Ivers thought he was ruining those students’ lives, then?” Morse asked, furrowing his brow. “Steering them away from the path.”

“He never said so,” Davis said cautiously. “But he’d already cut most of the funding we had to replace the old instruments.”

Morse looked like he wanted to march right up to Ivers and throw him out the nearest window.

“We’ll bring him in for questioning, Miss Davis,” Thursday said, loud and confident as he strode across the room toward the door.

And the history teacher nodded, her eyes hard.

“One more thing,” she said, raising her chin as if to dare them to tell her that she was being silly. She was close to retirement, and perhaps she felt she had little to lose. “He’d have hired someone to do the dirty work for him, if he’s involved in all this.”

“Thank you, Miss Davis,” Thursday said, turning his hand on the knob.

The walk to the car was silent. Jakes was aware that Thursday was watching them both carefully, so he kept his eyes on the gravel path in front of him.

Thursday nodded and opened the car door, slipping inside the driver’s seat.

“At least this one will be open and shut,” Jakes said.

“Does that man think that he doesn’t have blood on his hands if he can’t see it?” Thurday muttered, frustration seeping into his voice.

“Oh he can see it,” Morse said quietly. “And no amount of scrubbing’s gonna make it disappear.”

“Not enough soap in the world,” Jakes said.

They drove back to the station, listening to a jaunty tune of the radio. Morse didn’t say anything about wanting to crush the radio, so Jakes considered that a victory.


	3. Chapter 3

Getting enough evidence to arrest Ivers took a few days, but things didn’t get much better when they’d brought him to the station. The sun was setting and Thursday was still trying to get the man to give something away.

“He’s refusing to talk at all,” Morse said, fresh from the interrogation room. Well, with a bit of a stop in the staff room. He had a steaming cup of tea in his hand. “Thursday said that he was thinking of bringing Bright into the interrogation room, just to rattle him.”

“Says that if we continue to investigate him, he’ll pull some strings to get us all fired,” Jakes said. “Kept saying that we’re like the police in the Sherlock Holmes novels, no good for nothing.”

“He’s already tried to silence Mr. Bright,” Trewlove said, draining her own teacup. “As if that would work.”

Perhaps it would have, once. But not after Blenheim Vale.

“Hm,” Morse said, sipping his tea and probably burning his mouth. “He did confess to knowing the victims that County found. I bet he’s nervous about us finding out that he hired people to…”

“Take care of them?” Jakes suggested. “It’s only a matter of time before Ivers confesses that he hired those thugs.”

“He didn’t look like a happy man,” Morse said.

“And we’re disturbing his spider-web,” Jakes said, blowing out smoke. “Doesn’t that fellow know what happened to the crooks in Sherlock Holmes?”

“Everybody thinks of themselves as the hero of their own story,” Trewlove said. “Even if they are the villain.”

“Strange that he doesn’t know his Sherlock Holmes if he’s teaching kids,” Morse said, gulping down the rest of his tea.

 “Let’s make sure that he confesses before someone shoots him,” Jakes said, watching as Trewlove stood up, empty teacup in hand.

Jakes hadn’t even managed to light a second cigarette when he looked up to see Bright standing in front of his desk, his neck flushed and eyes full of rage. His whole body was angled towards the door, as if waiting for someone to attack.

“If you could come to my office, gentlemen,” Bright said, his tone businesslike but his hand was gripping the teacup so hard that Jakes wondered how long it would take for the porcelain to crack under the pressure. “I’ve just had a visit from Mister Ivers’s former colleague.”

Morse and Jakes followed Bright into his office, because there was nothing else they could do. The scent of citrusy aftershave and tea lingered in the air.

Bright closed the door far too carefully, as if it was not his own office. The teacup didn’t even wobble.

There was something in Bright’s movements, in his decisive steps and how he held his steaming cup of tea, that told of a different time and a different life. He was a living memory of faded traditions and protocols, of how things used to be. A long time ago, he’d put the blue uniform too.

Morse had said something once about Bright being a person removed from their time, peering in as if from the outside.

The teacup Bright had been carrying was placed on the desk like a sacrifice to whatever god of justice was currently listening.

“In fact, this was his second visit,” Bright continued, sitting down behind his desk and lighting a cigarette too quickly, his fingers white as he gripped the match. “Quite adept at using veiled threats, that man.”

“Want us to go arrest him for wasting police time, sir?” Jakes asked. “Or for threatening you?”

Bright blinked as if he hadn’t expected that answer at all.

“No,” he said. “There is no need to do that.”

There was a definite need to do that.

Jakes already had the handcuffs for the job.

“Didn’t want us to continue to investigate his old friend, then?” Morse asked. “Thought it was a disgrace that we were doing so in the first place, right?”

“Indeed,” Bright said, his mouth a grim line. “Our guests are influential men in Oxford society, especially among our superiors. I suspect he’ll be speaking about this investigation with his friends. I want you both to step carefully, gentlemen.”

“Sir?” Morse said.

“I’d even suggest a temporary transition to another station, if not a permanent one,” Bright said with a sigh. “As a matter of personal safety.”

Beside Jakes, Morse’s face went several shades paler, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out. Jakes swallowed the sour taste in his mouth, forcing himself to stand still.

“What?” Jakes asked, staring at Bright. “You want us to leave? In the middle of an investigation?”

“No, no,” Bright said, his voice lowering, becoming softer. “But it might be prudent to leave sometime soon. There is a position or two opening up in London in around a month…”

 “Are they going to hunt us down like animals?” Morse asked.

Bright hesitated, then leaned forwards on his desk, tapping ash off his cigarette.

“Heaven knows I don’t want you gone-,” Bright began, blowing out smoke.

“Sir?” Morse said. “Then why-“

“They know your names,” Bright said, his voice far too calm. The voice of a man holding back the sort of rage that claws at your insides. “So if anything goes awry, any career advancement for you here in Oxford will be significantly halted if not completely stalled. And I won’t be around forever to look after you.”

“We’ve put away too many corrupt officers for them to like us much,” Morse said. “That doesn’t mean that they can drive us out.”

Or Bright. They couldn’t have him either.

“You can both recall our past conversation,” Bright said gently. “I’ll do my best to make sure that you don’t come to harm, although I fear that I’ve failed when it comes to that in the past.”

For a brief moment in the fading light, Bright looked like a fragile old man.

That wouldn’t do.

“You shot that tiger so that it wouldn’t eat Morse,” Jakes said. “That’s got to count for something.”

“Perhaps,” Bright said, visibly pulling himself together. “But this is not a problem that can be solved by using a rifle.”

“Sir-“ Morse began, but Bright held up a hand. Perhaps to stop the argument that this was indeed a problem that could be solved with a rifle.

“I understand if you want to stay and stand your ground,” Bright said. “Just know that the other option exists if push comes to a shove.”

“Of course, sir,” Jakes said, stepping on Morse’s foot so that he bowed his head instead of straightening up like Jakes had. “Thank you.”

Bright nodded, his movements stiff.

“Time to return to your duties, Sergeants,” he said, gesturing towards the door.

“Yes, sir,” Morse said, already hurrying towards the door. Jakes lingered, watching as Bright walked to the window and looked over the city, smoke wafting through the air from his cigarette. He left as quietly as he could, before Bright would turn around and look at him, perhaps seeing something in his eyes that Jakes didn’t want him to see.

Bright had just shown them that he’d arranged things for them so that they could run out the back door if their lives would start to crumble. And he’d made damn sure that there would be a place for them to run to. Both of them.

Just in case this thing they had going on would still be there, even if everything else was gone.

When Jakes came back to his desk, Morse was typing and frowning at paperwork, as if it would be completed if he stared at it enough. The office was already empty and all the other lamps had been turned off. He heard Bright’s slightly uneven footsteps and the front door close behind him.

They were alone.

“Come on,” Jakes said. “Ivers’s turn himself in as soon as he realizes that there aren’t any strings left to pull.”

“Still-,” Morse began.

“And I found one of those Sherlock Holmes collection books in one of the broom closets when I was looking for the old space heater, after Ivers kept yammering about them.” Jakes said. “Thought you could take a look before we head home.”

Jakes handed over the paperback, which looked like it had been dropped a few times in a puddle. Morse took it and began paging through it, looking for the story of the Master Blackmailer. Then Jakes went down on his knees (which earned him a scandalized look from Morse) and plugged in the old space heater he’d stashed away out of sight underneath his desk.

It took a while for the heater to start working, but the same could be said about his own organization of all the unhelpful remarks old students and friends had said about the victim and he’d dutifully written down. If there was a clever twist, Morse would find it.

Jakes nudged the space heater away from his shoes so that his socks would not catch fire and that the hot air would hit Morse’s socks instead. That man’s feet were always bloody freezing. He needed this space heater in his life.

“No wonder Ivers thinks that the police in those stories are idiots,” Jakes said. “We never get to see what they are up to.”

“Mmm,” Morse said. “Imagine working with Holmes all the time.”

“Lestrade did,” Jakes said, organizing his papers into piles. “He bloody knew Holmes and Watson were involved with Milverton’s murder, and he let them off the hook.”

“Maybe Lestrade just figured that someone was going to kill him eventually and that sending Holmes and Watson to jail would be a bad long-term plan,” Morse said. “Lots of crimes they had yet to solve and all that.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to be the copper who arrested Holmes and Watson,” Jakes said.

“Nobody would,” Morse said with a small smile.

“Better to let them stay in Baker Street, if you ask me,” Jakes said. “Or travelling around, bothering other police officers all around the country.”

“Lestrade knew what he was doing,” Morse said. “That’s why he’s the one Watson described as the most capable one.”

“Yeah,” Jakes said, standing up and dusting off his suit. “Are you coming? Or are you going to stay here all night?”

It was better to ask Morse early, so to prevent him from staying at the station until dawn. He’d found Morse sleeping at his desk far too many times.

Jakes turned off the heater.

“Going to walk me home?” Morse asked, blinking.

“You heard Mister Bright,” Jakes said. “Someone’s gotta make sure you get home safe and sound.”

“In a few minutes,” Morse said, waving the cheap book in the air. “I’ve still got a few pages left.”

Jakes waited at the door, lighting a cigarette as he watched Morse stuff the paperback into his coat pocket.

 

The fresh cold air was a relief after being stuck inside the station all day. Jakes breathed and took a luxurious drag off his cigarette. Morse stuffed his hands inside his pockets and looked up at the dark sky. The walk to Morse’s bedsit wasn’t a long one, but it was long enough to make them shiver.

“Listen,” Morse said when they’d been walking for around five minutes, edging closer to him in the darkness between streetlights. Their shoulders brushed, just for a moment. “They are going to stop us. Two men against all that, it just won’t work.”

“The house always wins,” Jakes said, throwing the cigarette on the sidewalk and stepping on it.

“You saw know what happened when I asked Strange to get the cavalry before Thursday was shot,” Morse said, his breath a visible in the cold air. “There’s plenty of officers like him, ready to throw others under the bus if it means that they will be rewarded for it.”

“What if we were the house?” Jakes heard himself say.

The sky above them was clear, and they could almost see the stars. Morse was walking far too close to him, their arms brushing. The scent of Bright’s cigarettes lingered in Jakes’s mind.

Bright had told them they had to leave one day, but he’d never said anything about them _coming back._

“What?” Morse said, furrowing his brow.

“What if we climbed the ranks by solving so many cases that throwing us out would be a public display of wasted talent?” Jakes said. “What if they didn’t dare to sack us?”

“That’s a good dream to have,” Morse said, sounding as if he was trying to be optimistic. “What would Bright say if he heard that you wanted his job?”

“What?” Jakes breathed, laughing as Morse winked at him.

“You don’t want that hat?” Morse asked, patting his own curls.

“I want a new suit and a promotion,” Jakes said. “One step at a time, Morse.”

“Chief Super Jakes,” Morse said, grinning ear from ear. “Sounds good, yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Jakes said, grinning back. “Better me than someone who’d beat up a Constable for not knowing his place, I guess.”

“Bright would say that the welfare of the people should be the supreme law,” Morse said warmly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “He’d say that he was pleased that it was you taking his place.”

“Sounds about right,” Jakes said, shrugging. He quickened his pace as if he could run from the warmth in his chest, but stopped when he saw that Morse wasn’t by his side.

“Look at those,” Morse said, his voice hushed with barely concealed delight. He was something in a store window.

Jakes strolled over there at a leisurely pace, expecting to see some sort of a music shop with a display of record players or records.

It was a sweet shop.

Morse pointed at a display of chocolates. The sort with caramel filling that Jakes had bought after he’d passed his Sergeant exam. He’d only bought a single one, but it had been good enough for him to absently wonder why people did not rob stores like that more often.

“When we become Inspectors,” Morse said, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, his voice still hushed, as if their plan to eventually be promoted was a big secret. “We’ll buy a whole box.”

Jakes laughed, the sound echoing across the silent street.

“Alright,” Jakes said. “That’s a deal.”

“Good!” Morse said as they continued on their way.

“And flowers too,” Jakes joked, just the idea of someone giving him flowers far too silly to contemplate.

Morse nodded, grinning.

Jakes resisted the urge to grab him and shove him into the nearest alley and kiss him until they were both out of breath.

There would be time for that later.

When they reached Morse’s door, Morse hesitated for a split second. Jakes was already thinking of all the shortcuts he could take on his way home and was about to say goodbye when Morse finally spoke.

“Do you want a cup of tea?”

Jakes looked up. Morse made horrible tea.

“Just one for the road,” Jakes said, loud enough for Morse to hear him, low enough for nobody else to hear his reply.

Jakes watched as Morse opened the door and then stepped inside the shabby room.

If they had been sensible, they would have said their goodbyes out in the street and left.

After all, Bright had just warned them of how dangerous the future could become.

But Morse appeared to believe that the best kind of love was the illogical kind, and that a little kissing in the dark wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Jakes just wanted to warm up and had nothing against some heavy petting behind closed doors.

They managed to close and lock the door as well as draw the blinds before Jakes gripped Morse’s shoulders and Morse pulled him close. Morse kissed him like they’d both die tomorrow, all teeth and bumping noses.

They barely slowed down enough to breathe, much less get properly undressed.

Morse’s fingers traced his collarbone and Jakes cupped the back of Morse’s neck before they kissed again. So up close, Jakes could see every single freckle on Morse’s face.

When they finally pulled apart, Jakes’s hair was a mess and Morse’s breathing was ragged. They cleaned up and Morse started rummaging around in the closet, occasionally glancing at the whisky bottle on the counter but shaking his head.

Jakes draped his trousers and shirt over a nearby chair and folded his red socks before sitting down on the unmade bed while Morse busied himself with making tea.

“Can I have one of those?” Morse asked when Jakes shook a cigarette out of the packet.

“Thought you said it was a filthy habit?” Jakes answered, raising an eyebrow but handing over the packet when Morse sat down beside him and shoved a cup of tea into his hands.

“Replace a bad habit with another, I suppose,” Morse said when Jakes lit his own cigarette and then Morse’s. “Trewlove said that it’s good for the nerves.”

“Hm,” Jakes agreed, watching as Morse took a tentative drag.

If Morse kept on drinking like he had a few months ago, there would be no stopping him, really, in drinking himself to death.

This was the better of two evils.

“Down into the lungs,” Jakes said, demonstrating. “Keep your pack behind your notebook, if you want to try this out.”

Morse nodded, tapping ash into the glass on the nightstand.

When they’d finished smoking their cigarettes, they slipped under the covers. They still had a few hours until dawn, and it was easier to stay here and listen to Thursday’s inevitable comment about sleepovers than to walk home in the cold.

Morse took his hand in the dark, entwining their fingers.

His hand was warm.

Jakes closed his eyes, already in the endless soft place between sleep and wakefulness where it’s always dawn and the faint scent of blooming flowers in spring.

He squeezed Morse’s fingers and let himself sink into his dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Ivers turned himself in and confessed to the murders. He’d made references in Latin about justice, which had made Bright stare and shake his head and Morse answer back in Latin. He’d hired thugs, which had done the job, but he was the one who was getting the longer sentence.

Thursday took the boys out to the pub to celebrate. Bright had told them to come back to finish the paperwork and smiled as if he wanted to ruffle Morse’s hair. Morse had just looked relieved to not have to worry about murders.

“Bit like a knight, isn’t he?” Jakes asked, sitting down beside Thursday in the pub. He kept his voice low and his eyes on Morse, who was nibbling at the crackers Jakes had shoved at him and seemingly listening to a far-off conversation. Perhaps he was just thinking about one of those weird operas.

“Hm?” Thursday said, biting into his ham-and-tomato sandwich. “Knight?”

“Moves weird on a chessboard, not like a pawn or those tower things,” Jakes clarified. “Thinks different than most of us ordinary coppers too.”

Some days, when Morse would sit across from him and frowning at the endless paperwork like a rumpled-looking teacher with his hair in his eyes, Jakes could see the man Morse would have been had he decided to continue with his studies instead of joining the police.

His love of mushy romantic poetry and odd music meant that everyone thought that he was weird, but in a place like Oxford where so many suspects loved to fling obscure references at anyone and everyone to prove that they were superior, having Morse around was a bonus.

It did Jakes’s heart good to see those blokes get put in their place when Morse lost his patience.

“Inspector material, our Morse,” Thursday said, smiling faintly. “Like you are.”

Jakes glanced at Thursday, keeping his face as neutral as he could so it would not betray the fact that his heart had jumped at that. Morse hadn’t moved, but there was a faint blush on his neck, just above his collar.

“Got to pass the exam first,” Jakes said, lighting a cigarette with practiced movements as Morse began to drum his fingers on the table to some beat in his head.

“Don’t doubt that you will,” Thursday said, his voice warm as he puffed on his pipe. “Both of you.”

“Sending him to the Witney station isn’t going to do him any favors,” Jakes said. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. Morse was never going to say anything about being sent away to the Country sector, he never had. Instead he’d just went on his way and suffered in silence until he’d been allowed to go back to the City sector. “Spends all his time there doing paperwork and being made fun of.”

Morse was a sensitive soul, who sometimes needed someone else to help him balance out all the horrible things he knew existed in the world. Putting him in a place filled with coppers who didn’t know how to handle someone who thought like Morse wasn’t going to be good for him. He wasn’t even allowed to solve crime there.

“Distance keeps him safe,” Thursday said. “Besides, he’s survived being at that station before. And we can’t send you if those friends of Ivers’s decide to make trouble for us.”

Jakes crushed the urge to argue and shake his head.

There was no doubt that Ivers had been the same sort as the men who had been in Blenheim Vale, the sort that enjoyed having power over others and thought that children needed to be taught a lesson.

But their hands were bound. He’d already confessed, and sniffing around to find his cronies would only be the next step if something went wrong.

Thursday couldn’t have his Sergeant sent away, not when Jakes was so experienced. Morse, however, was still a lowly baby Sergeant. And he’d been sent away before.

Jakes leaned back in his chair, taking a drag of his cigarette. He’d seen the way Morse’s suit had been at least a size too big for him after coming back to Cowley station. It had taken him over a year to get Morse to return back to a normal, everyday eating pattern that included at least two meals a day and enough tea to fuel his brain.

Just being able to survive hardship didn’t mean that you were eager to do so again. And sending someone away because they had survived in the past wasn’t a good move. It was just a cruel one, even if it was somewhat well-intentioned.

“What is your long-term plan, anyway?” Thursday asked. “Going to stay in Oxford?”

Jakes blew out smoke, forcing himself to stay still as Thursday stared at him with the look he used when he was puzzling out a particularly tangled bit of evidence. 

“For a while at least,” Jakes said. “It’s not like Morse is ever going to want to leave this place. Someone’s got to make sure he knows the ropes before he becomes a senior Sergeant.”

Telling Thursday that he was planning on stealing Morse as soon as he became an Inspector wasn’t a good idea. Stealing Morse away would take time. He’d have to drag him along on cases and visibly ask him about weird references in front of other police officers.

Morse would have to convince the other officers that he was spending so much time with Jakes because he wanted to learn the mystical art of policing from the best. Not that Morse wasn’t already doing a good job of that already.

Jakes sure as hell was not going to have Strange as his Sergeant. He’d leave before that ever happened.

No.

Morse loved Oxford like musicians loved their instruments. And Jakes was not going to take that away from him. He’d stay in Oxford for a while.

Besides If left alone, Morse would start writing erotic fiction under a different name as another source of income, or something.

It wasn’t as if Jakes would end up in Bright’s position as the Chief Super anyhow. He didn’t have the connections, for starters. They ones in charge would want someone they could control, someone who would obey their orders with minimal fuss.  Someone like Strange, perhaps.

Not some kid from Blenheim Vale, no matter how much he’d work. Better to focus on becoming an Inspector for now.

The rest would sort itself out.


	5. Chapter 5

“What’s it like, working with Morse all the time?” Trewlove asked when Jakes parked the car in the cramped parking space near Whitney Station. Snow fell from the sky, covering everything like a big wet blanket.

“He can be the most condescending ass in the world,” Jakes said. “And he keeps using big words for the sake of it. Doesn’t have the common sense to stop when he should.”

“But you’re here to get him back-“ Trewlove began as Jakes but the brake on.

“When you’re working with him on a case,” Jakes said haltingly, “He… doesn’t care that the suspects are nobs. He’s ready to arrest the whole world.”

“Caution to the wind,” Trewlove said.

“Yeah,” Jakes said, opening the car door. “Makes you want to be better…braver, even when it’s crazy to keep at it.”

“Into the jaws of death,” Trewlove said, closing the car door. “Right?”

“Right,” Jakes said, striding to towards Whitney Station. “Let’s bring him back home.”

 

Whitney Station was so alike Cowley Station it was like stepping into a warped mirror. Jakes strode inside, snow on his shoulders and in his hair until he was standing in front of Morse’s desk. The stacks of paperwork were so high that if someone had put them all in one pile they would have been as tall as Jakes. The ashtray beside the lamp was full of cigarette stubs.

“Jakes?” Morse asked, his eyes focusing as he looked up from a report. “What-“

Morse looked like hell. He was so pale that his freckles were even brighter and his suit was too baggy around the middle.

“We’re here to kidnap you,” Trewlove whispered, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” a man Jakes had never seen demanded, stomping over to stand in front of Jakes. “Who are you?”

“Inspector Peter Jakes, Cowley Station,” Jakes said, sticking his hand out. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Inspector?” the man spluttered, not taking Jakes’s hand. He was wearing Sergeant’s stripes.

Morse was biting his lip and smiling.

“We are working on a case where our main suspect keeps comparing this lady to a winter’s day,” Jakes told Morse. “And talking about chariots.”

“Summers’s day,” Morse blurted out. “Shakespeare.”

“Explains why he insists on her wearing flowery dresses in the middle of December,” Trewlove said, nodding.

“With Mister Bright in the hospital ‘cos of his heart, we need all men on deck,” Jakes told the still spluttering Sergeant. “So, we’re taking Morse back, effective immediately.”

“He’s got work to do,” the Sergeant said, stabbing his finger at the pile of paperwork.

“Give another Sergeant a good pen,” Jakes said, shrugging.

Morse stood up, smoothing out his jacket.

“Hurry up then,” Jakes said, patting Morse’s shoulder as they headed outside, “We’ve got murderers to catch. No sense in wasting those brains by doing nothing but paperwork.”

Trewlove waved goodbye to her former coworkers.

“Thanks…Inspector Jakes,” Morse said, when they were walking to the car. Jakes winked at him.

There was already snow in Morse’s hair and Jakes could feel something in his stomach unravel at the sight of Morse sticking his tongue out and trying to catch snowflakes.

 

Later that evening, when everyone else had gone home and they were the only ones in the station, Jakes would shove a new scarf into Morse’s hands.

And things would be good.


	6. Chapter 6

The years had passed.

Oh how they had passed.

The stack of letters from Jakes grew to a point where Morse no longer hid them in a cardboard box stashed away on top of a bookshelf. Instead he got a sizable chest from a clearance sale at an antique shop and filled it with letters and the occasional cigarette packet. Some evenings he’d take a single cigarette out of a packet and smoke it instead of his usual brand.

So whenever the stale smell of that particular brand of cigarettes, he’d allow himself a few seconds of fond memories and then steer his thoughts to solving a case.

It didn’t happen often at the station, though.

Morse was far too absorbed in the case to take much notice when the new Chief Superintendent was introduced to the officers. He wasn’t even in the station but interviewing a grieving widow who’d lost her husband.

So when he came back to the station, he just shrugged off the scent of those cigarettes and looked around for Lewis. He took off his faded coat and headed for his desk.

“Sir?” Lewis said, sounding young and strangely delighted. “There is something on your desk for you.”

“What is it?” Morse asked. He had no time for office pranks when he was in the middle of a case like this.

“Maybe it’s a clue?” Lewis asked. “It’s a drawing of a few flowers on top of a chocolate box. Expensive chocolates, too.”

Morse stilled, his heart pounding in his ears. He looked the little drawing, spotting a few roses and tulips, but mostly the flowers were the sort of round circle surrounded by petals-kind that children all around the world drew on their assignments.

But the chocolate box…

“They’re the ones with the caramel,” said a familiar voice. Morse would have recognized that voice in a crowd, anywhere in the world. The sound had faded from memory, he’d only heard it in his own voice when he’d read those letters.

Morse turned around to see that Jakes was smiling, his back ramrod straight and his hair just as neat as ever. But his eyes were gleaming.

“Oh, Inspector,” Lewis said quickly as if he was trying to save Morse’s dignity or possibly his career. “This is our new Chief Superintendent.”

“It’s been a long time, “ Morse said, taking Jakes’s hand, which was just as warm as it had ever been. “Far too long.”

“Twenty years,” Jakes said.

There were crow’s feet around his eyes now, and some grey around his temples. But he was just as tall and striking as he had been the day Morse had met him.

“Might as well have been twice as long,” Morse managed. “It’s good to have you back.”

“What-“ Lewis began, eyes darting between them.

Jakes blinked and then looked around the office, as if realizing where he was. But his eyes were warm and searching. He knew this station better than he knew the contents of his own bag of hair products.

“Of course, we must make a few changes, Chief Inspector,” Jakes said, making a sweeping gesture.

“What sort of changes?” Morse asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Replacing that old space heater, for one,” Jakes said, pointing at the old thing. “It was here when you were a Constable, Morse. It was probably new when the old man joined the force.”

“It stopped working last week, sir,” Lewis piped in. “Makes a noise when we try to turn it on.”

Jakes made the same face he’d made all those years ago when he’d thrown a spare shirt at Morse and told him to return it back clean. It was the face of a man willing to make sacrifices to solve a problem. It was the face of a man who was going to wake Morse up at an ungodly hour, make him tea and then drag him to a crime scene.

“Can’t have everyone freeze to death,” Jakes said.

“Good to see that you have your priorities straight,” Morse said, picking up the box of chocolates and opening it. He handed one to Jakes, who popped it in his mouth with a smile that was so charming that it was almost scandalous.

Morse ate his own chocolate and folded the drawing of the flowers into a small rectangle which he stuffed behind the handkerchief in his pocket.

“Can’t solve crime if we’re all frozen,” Lewis said, looking at the chocolate box with longing.

Morse closed the box.

“I’ll take this home with me,” he said. “If you want any more, you’ll have to come over.”

“You still have those books I lent you?” Jakes asked, lifting his eyebrows. “I need them back.”

“You think that killers have stopped making references to Agatha Christie novels and the Sherlock Holmes series?” Morse asked. “The one we dealt with last month kept going on and on about the importance of trains in a locked-room mystery story.”

“You’ll drive me to your house after work, then,” Jakes said, as if that was settled. “I’ll make the tea.”

“Lots of catching up to do,” Lewis said, nodding.

“Indeed, Lewis,” Morse said, seeing the smile on Jakes’s face.

It was going to be an interesting evening.


	7. Chapter 7

The Cowley police station was a quiet and peaceful place so late in the evening. Sergeant Lewis was putting away case files and cleaning up the glass board, neatly stacking the photographs and drawings so that they could be easily found if needed later on.

Morse was brewing tea in the staff room, having fixed the old radio and turned the volume up as much as possible to listen to his opera. His desk was suspiciously clean, even the ash tray had been rinsed and the old typewriter dusted. A tiny drawing of a flower had been taped to the side of the typewriter.

The air smelled of cigarettes, which meant that the new Chief Super was still around. Peter Jakes was considered to be the diligent and straightforward sort of man, having solved many murders in his career as a detective and kicked out corrupt officers at every opportunity.

This was all fine and good.

It was a change to have someone around who would, on the drop of a hat, tackle criminals himself if they tried to escape instead of making others do it. And the man knew his football and music. Lewis had seen him high-five DeBryn once, when the doc had said something about the band getting back together and grinned at Inspector Trewlove.

But what baffled the officers was the fact that he got along well with Morse. Splendidly, in fact. Jakes only shook his head in an oddly fond manner whenever Morse made some sort of comment about someone being around who got his references, looking delighted at the very prospect.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir,” Lewis said when the Chief Super wandered into the office. “But how come you decided to take the job?”

“Instead of going to the Yard or something?” Jakes asked, lighting his cigarette.

Lewis nodded, noting how Jakes glanced at the kitchen door.

“I’d spent long enough going from station to station, climbing the ladder,” Jakes said, shrugging. “I thought it was time to go home.”

“Morse did say that you used to work together,” Lewis ventured, watching as Jakes looked around the station with the air of a shepherd watching over his fields. “Back when he was a Constable.”

He’d seen the framed picture of them in Jakes’ office, Morse looking impossibly young and about as skittish as a deer with a grinning Jakes beside him. There had been a smaller group photograph in the back, where a dignified old man in full uniform peered at the camera and the man who was assumedly Morse’s old governor was holding onto his hat in the breeze.

“Sometimes it feels like we never stopped,” Jakes said. “When someone quotes poetry at you for decades, it tends to stick.”

“As it should,” Morse said, holding two cups of tea. “We caught that killer last week because you know your Shakespearian sonnets.”

“We would have caught him sooner if you hadn’t made such a fuss about me-“ Jakes said, aggressively smoking his cigarette.

“He almost shot you,” Morse said, putting the two cups on the desk, sloshing tea all over it.

“I’ll just go get something to wipe that up,” Lewis said, hurrying towards the staff room.

“You could have left me and-“ Jakes said, still smoking.

“Ruth 1:16,” Morse said slowly, his voice so quiet that Lewis barely heard him. There was something in his voice that he’d never heard before, shaky and hopeful.

Jakes’ posture changed, his shoulders dropping.

“I’ll look that one up,” Jakes said, breathing out.

Lewis practically launched himself into the kitchen, stomping towards the sink instead of pressing his ear against the door. If there was ever a situation that demanded privacy, it was something like this. So, he lingered, washing tea and coffee-stained cups and saucers that had piled up.

When he came back with a clean rag to clean up the tea, Morse was smiling. Jakes was standing just a fraction closer to him, a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about driving me home, Lewis,” Morse said, glancing at Jakes. “I’ve been reminded that we’ve finally got time to talk.”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis said, fighting the urge to smile and losing. He grabbed his coat, waving goodbye as the two other men sat down with their tea and cigarettes and memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and comments greatly encouraged and appreciated.


End file.
